


Bravery

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: rewatch bits [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s01e08 The Challenge, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 22:18:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14066781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: After The Challenge Porthos and Constance find comfort in their friendship





	Bravery

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Mr Bonacieux is as in the show, manipulative and abusive.

Constance is not at all surprised at the smug pleasure on Jacques’s face when he comes home and finds d’Artagnan gone. He’s been making it harder and harder for her to think of him as a good man, recently. She still has his gift, the expensive jewels hidden away, kept guiltily safe for if she ever needs money even if they are technically his. Constance has left him dinner, she sits at the table and he eats happily as if all is back to normal. She can’t stand it. When she gets up and gets her shawl he looks surprised, then grunts in exasperation and tells her to go buy him bread and ale. She goes, her thirty livres still in her skirt unknown to him, his two livres in her hand. She doesn’t buy anything, just walks, lucky not to be robbed out at night like this. She drops by a certain house to give one of the livres to the working women of the Parisian streets, they always need a few coins in there. She walks until she thinks Bonacieux will have given up on her then heads back to the house. 

She lets out a sigh that’s almost a sob when she sees him sitting in the dim kitchen, no candles just the stove lit. He turns, though, and it’s Porthos not Bonacieux. Constance’s grief is displaced by surprised. She goes to stand by the stove to warm up and finds a plate of food on there kept warm, a mug of wine also warm. She turns to Porthos and he shrugs. Constance brings it to the table and eats in silence. It’s companionable, with Porthos, not stiff like with Bonacieux. 

“What are you doing here?” Constance asks, when she’s nursing the wine, shoes kicked off under the table. 

“Came looking for the pup,” Porthos says, leaning back in the chair. He looks weary. “Wasn’t here, your husband was storming about. I sent him off to the taverns, he’s not a violent drunk is he? Gave him coin.”

“He just sleeps,” Constance says. “It’s… a nice break. You shouldn’t have given him your money.”

“Didn’t,” Porthos says, a momentary brightness flashing over his features. “I’ve light fingers, I took it from his purse.”

Constance laughs, delighted. Jacques probably won’t even notice or if he does he’ll put it down to drunkenness or someone at the taverns taking it off him, not the honourable musketeer. He might not like the soldiers but they’re the _king’s_ musketeers and he likes the _king_ ; he can’t dislike them with the king’s shine on them. 

“He doesn’t hurt me,” Constance says. 

“More ways to hurt someone than hitting them,” Porthos says, voice soft and sad from experience. He shakes his head and smiles at her. 

“What happened?” Constance asks, wanting someone else’s sadness to distract from her own, even if it is from d’Artagnan’s friend, reminding her of d’Artagnan. 

“Did the pup behave badly?” Porthos asks. 

“That is not your business. What happened?”

“I thought maybe… but no. I guess I wouldn’t give it up?” Porthos says, looking at her with a tired desperation, like he wants her assurance. 

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Constance says, finishing her wine and going to open up the stove, sitting by it. Porthos joins her, side by side legs stretched out to the heat. 

“Fighting,” Porthos says, rubbing his face. “I don’t want to be a violent man, or dangerous. I said to Aramis there’s a life beyond the musketeers. Wish I believed that.”

“Someone offered it you?” Constance asks tugging on bits of what Porthos is saying, what she knows of him, trying to knit it together into a better picture. 

“Mm,” Porthos says, and his face lights up, softens, goes beautifully open and hopeful. oh. _That_ sort of someone. It makes Constance think of d’Artagnan and she covers her face. “Yeah.”

“I never asked for much,” Constance whispers. “Whatever I feel for… anyone, it’s not like I ever expected or asked for anything more than this marriage. I’m practical, realistic, I don’t dream.”

“Dreaming is something people do when they have options,” Porthos says, his hand reaching out and taking hers. 

They sit together like that, hand in hand and side by side but each nursing their own hurts. It grows darker and colder and the stove starts to go out, the wood running low. Constance hasn’t any more for today. She remembers the thirty livres and laughs, thrusting wood into the stove without much care; she can afford it. She’s not the one paying d’Artagnan’s bills anymore. 

“I got a glimpse,” Porthos says. “She was something else.”

“Who?”

“Alice Clerbeaux,” Porthos says. 

“I know of her,” Constance says. “She’s bought cloth from my husband. She’s very beautiful.”

“Yeah, and kind,” Porthos says. “Offered me a lot. I nearly took it, too.”

Constance thinks about the way the woman had smiled at her when Bonacieux was dismissive, the way her hair was twisted and plaited, her bright eyes. She nods. They settle into quiet again. She doesn’t want to tell him about d’Artagnan, he’ll hear d’Artagnan’s side soon enough she’s sure. She doesn’t want him to know that she was dissembling. None of them can know. She stares into the fire and her eyes sting, losing herself. 

“More wine,” Porthos says, getting up and going to find a bottle, coming back quickly with one he must have brought; she didn’t have it. He tops her mug up and gets one for himself, making himself at home. He toasts her before taking a deep sip and resting back in his chair again. “I’m glad of your friendship, Constance. It’s hard to always be the realistic, practical one, to always be down to earth while Athos is off in his melancholy, Aramis is busy being romantic and flighty.”

“Oh,” Constance says, not sure she wants to be the practical realistic person.

“There’s more to us than that, eh? We’ve got plenty of melancholy and romanticism,” Porthos grumbles, a proper rumbling grumble. He tips her a wink and she laughs, letting her head fall back with it, hair coming out of it’s ties. “You’re beautiful too you know. In case them boys in your life have forgot to tell you recently.”

_You shine so brightly in my eyes, it puts every other woman in the shade_

Constance’s eyes fill with tears and she covers her face again drying them away. It was a very charming complement, she’d loved it. It had felt like being young, the giddiness and rush of it, of being the focus of such intent. She glances up at finds Porthos watching her, face troubled. 

“What is it?” she asks. 

“I wouldn’t want to lose your friendship,” Porthos says. “Now that… I wouldn’t want to lose this, is all.”

“No,” Constance says, believing it as she says it. “You bring good wine.”

Porthos roars with joyful laughter and Constance can’t help joining in. He pours her another measure and toasts her properly, clanging their mugs together with too much enthusiasm setting them both laughing again. 

“Ah, what a week,” she sighs, leaning back and sipping the wine. 

“That I will drink to,” Porthos says. “You know, I might give up soldiering, but not my family. Where she saw violence, I just saw them protecting each other, and protecting me. I saw them fighting beautifully. I saw courage and brotherhood. If she can’t see the beauty in my family then…”

“You see beauty in people where others don’t find so much,” Constance says, looking down at her knees. 

“Courage, too,” Porthos says, stubbornly, clearly getting her meaning. “You never gave in, Constance, don’t let people make you feel otherwise. Call it regrouping, yes? You fight hard for people, d’Artagnan told me about what you did for Fleur, I’ve seen what you do for him, seen what you do for the women of Paris. You fight that hard sometimes you gotta take a rest, sometimes you make enemies and lie low for safety. Whatever’s going on don’t… you’re full of fire, yeah?”

“Sure,” Constance says. 

“Bravery, it’s not what people think. Not doing great things and finding glory and honour. Bravery is in the little things,” Porthos says. “Like walking to church despite what other people might think, or offering a soldier another life, or letting go of vengeful anger so you can win and get justice for someone else. Or standing in for your men cus you hope the best for them, even if they censure you for it, taking their disrespect even when it’s not deserved.”

“You’re not talking about me anymore,” Constance says. 

“Got the feeling you’d prefer we didn’t,” Porthos says. 

“We should be cheerful.”

“Ok.”

“But grief isn’t shameful, so maybe we should weep,” Constance says. 

Porthos looks a little taken aback but game. He wrinkles up his face as if trying for tears and it makes Constance laugh, finding that she’s fond of his face. He snorts and shakes his head, chuckling. So they don’t weep together, but they don’t force cheer either. They share wine and burn too much wood and laugh too hard and sit in silence. He bolsters her and makes sure, absolutely sure, that when he goes he will be welcome back. That when he leaves, she’s safe and warm and knows she’s not alone. He slips into the streets, silent and barely visible, not drawing any attention to her having a man in the house alone. She puts the stove out and retreats to her little bed under the window, away from Bonacieux, away from d’Artagnan, alone. She feels warm, though, holding his friendship tight to her as she falls asleep.


End file.
